Here Be Dragons - 1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  346 tween John and his barons, that they could take no pleasure in any vic. tory that strengthened the crown. With a start, Llewelyn realized what he was doing, standing midst the burning embers of a charred ruin and envisioning it resurrected from the ashes and rubble, no less ambitious in design, far more impregnable to attack. It was heartening to discover that he had not yet lost all hope, even now as he braced himself for what was to come, for the price he would have to pay for John's truce. He knew, just as John did, that it was not a peace. John wasted no time. "I expect to be compensated in full for the cost of this campaign. But I am not vindictive. Since I know what a poor, wretched country Wales is, how limited your resources are, I am willing to take payment in livestock. I shall want some of your best horses, hawks, and hunting dogs for my own use, will let you know how many. But you are to pay tribute to the English crown in cattletwenty thousand head." "Christ!" Llewelyn was staggered. "You do not understand how dependent we are on cattle. If you reduce our herds by twenty thousand, my people will starve!" "You're the one who does not understand. You're not here to argue, to negotiate. You're here to listen whilst I tell you what I want from you. And what I want are cattle . . . and land. All of Gwynedd west of the River Conwy, the four cantrefs you call the Perfeddwlad." With one stroke he'd just cut Gwynedd in two, gained half of North Wales for the English crown. Llewelyn stared at him, saying nothing, taking what meagre consolation he could from a grim resolve, that claiming the Perfeddwlad would be easier than holding onto it. It was not difficult for John to guess the tenor of his thoughts, for he'd made no effort to dissemble, and everything about him, from his stance to the set of his mouth, spoke of silent defiance. More than ever, John regretted what he'd done for love of his daughter. But he had one great advantage over most men, a lesson learned at bitter cost during those years he'd dwelt in the shadow of a brother he hated, in the shadow of the crown. He knew how to wait. "Whatever my other faults, naivete is not amongst them. I know, of course, that you cannot be trusted out of my sight, that an oath of honor means no more to a Welshman than it would to an infidel Saracen. Therefore, I shall have to take measures to make sure you keep faithwant thirty hostages as pledges for your fidelity to the crown. They a^ to be wellborn, the sons of your Welsh lords, scions of noble Houses. Llewelyn knew it was a common Norman custom to take hostage5' knew John had in custody not only the daughters of the Scottish Kin& but the sons of those of his own lords who'd fallen into disfavor. Eve

  r 347 the powerful and respected Earl of Pembroke had been forced to yie tvvo of his sons to allay John's feverish suspicions. But knowing th did nothing to ease Llewelyn's sense of outrage. "As you will," he sa tersely/ not trusting himself to say more. "You are to select them, to take upon yourself the responsibility fi their fate. But of the thirty, one must be your son Gruffydd." Llewelyn's head came up sharply. "No1." There was a sudden, tense silence. Chester glanced toward Johi then took it upon himself to say, "Need I point out, my lord, that you' m no position to refuse anything the King might demand of you?"- making it a simple statement of fact when another man might ha^ turned it into a mocking taunt. "He's holding two sons of mine," a voice close at hand said i Welsh, and Llewelyn turned, stared for a startled moment into the ic blue eyes of an old enemy. Maelgwn seemed surprised himself, as if h words had somehow come of their own volition. He shrugged, mu mured coolly, "Mae yn rhy hwyr edifaru ar ol i'r ffagl gyneu." It was an oft-quoted Welsh proverb, one Llewelyn knew well: It too late to repent after the flame is kindled. He looked from Maelgwn to Chester, realizing that these two mei the most unlikely of allies, were, nevertheless, trying to do him a goc turn, to remind him of the wretched realities of defeat, the likely cons> quences of refusal. He realized, too, that they were right. But how i Christ's blessed name could he ever do what was being demandec How could he give up his son to John, to John of all men? John was smiling faintly. "The boy is in the camp; it would be eas enough to take him. But I've a question to put to you first, my loi Prince of Gwynedd. You speak with such passion of your concern f< your people, speak as if you truly care whether they have meat to put i their bellies. Tell me, then, how you can agree to offer up other men sons, whilst refusing to yield your own." Llewelyn sucked in his breath. He no longer looked defiant, looke shaken, and John took some satisfaction from that, but it was m enough, not nearly enough. He rose from his chair, and Llewelyn took a step toward the dai will Your Grace spare me a few moments . . . alone?" John frowned, but curiosity won out, and he nodded, waved tf 0 her men away from the dais. They retreated with obvious reluctano 0 less curious than he. As soon as they were out of earshot, he d< "landed, "Well? What have you to say to me?" ^ Just this." Llewelyn had advanced to the first step of the dais. ' . ant y°u to remember," he said, "that if Gruffydd is your hostag< Joanr>a is mine."

  348 I! T 349 John's eyes widened. "What mean you by that? You'd never hu^ Joanna!" "No, I would not. I care very deeply for her. And I'm willing t0 concede that you care, too." "Of course I care!" John snapped. "What of it?" "You know now that Joanna loves me. But she loves you, too, and however angry you are with her, I do not think you want to lose that love. Am I wrong?" John was frowning again. "Go on," he said curtly. "Get to the point." "As I said, Joanna still loves you. But there are things she does not know, that I've kept from her. Mayhap they'd make no difference to her if she knew. Mayhap they'd make all the difference in the world. Do you want to risk it?" "You expect me to believe you'd do that to Joanna, use her as a weapon against me?" Llewelyn gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "You expect me to believe you would not?" John bit back a hot retort. "What do you want?" he said at last. "I want you to remember that your quarrel is with me, not with my son." "He is a hostage, not a scapegoat. You have nothing to fear for him as long as you keep faith." John paused. "In a very real sense, his fate is in your hands, not mine." THE Chapter House was lit by a single, smoking rushlight, cluttered with overturned benches and the debris of soldiers who'd been using it as a barracks. It was a somber setting for what Llewelyn had to say, but it did offer privacy. When he'd exited the frater hall, he'd found Joanna and Gruffydd waiting in the cloisters. They'd followed him obediently into the Chapter House, showed themselves to be sensitive to his mood by asking no questions. They watched as he wandered about the chamber, kicking aside empty wine flasks, until Gruffydd could stand the suspense no longer. "Are you not going to tell us what happened, Papa? What does he want?" "All of Gwynedd west of the Conwy, twenty thousand cattle, and thirty hostages." Llewelyn had half hoped his son might guess t e truth, but Gruffydd's face showed only outrage. Whirling about, glared accusingly at Joanna. "I tried to tell you, Papa, that she was not to be trusted!" "Do not talk foolishness, Gruffydd. If not for Joanna, there'd hav been no terms at all." Llewelyn glanced over at his wife. "I owe her a ^eat deal. We all do." He knew no easy way to tell the boy, and the longer he delayed, the harder it would get. "John demands that you be one of the hostages, Gruffydd/> Gruffydd gasped, stared at him, eyes dark with disbelief. "And . . . and you agreed?" "I had no choice, lad." "No ..." Gruffydd backed away. "She got you to do this! So her son will be your only heir, so he'll" "That's not true! I did not know my father would" "Liar! He did it for you, for you and your God-cursed son!" "Gruffydd, that is enough!" In the silence that settled over the chamber, Llewelyn faced a very ugly truth, one he'd sought for five years to deny. He'd long known that Joanna and Gruffydd did not get along, but he'd succeeded in convincing himself that it was no more than the natural strain between a stepmother and a child not hers, that their relationship would mend as Gruffydd matured. Now he looked at Joanna and Gruffydd, and was forced to acknowledge that the son he loved and the woman he loved would never be reconciled, would never be other than implacable enemies, each one begrudging the other a place in his heart, in his life. Standing there in the dimly lit Chapter House, he could, for the first time, comprehend how it must be for Joanna, caught between the conflicting claims of

  a father and a husband. But for the moment
, nothing mattered more than Gruffydd's need. "Ednyved and Rhys are outside in the cloisters. They'll escort you back to our camp, Joanna." She gave him an anxious look that made him conscious of just how exhausted he truly was, but she did not argue, slipped quietly from the chamber. Llewelyn crossed to his son, put his hand on the boy's arm. Gruffydd jerked free with such violence that he lurched against one of the benches. "How could you do it, Papa? How could you ever agree to turn me over to John?" "Agree? Good Christ, Gruffydd! Does a man dragged to the gallows agree to the hanging? If you'd not insisted upon coming with me, if y°u'd stayed at Dolwyddelan as I wanted" Llewelyn broke off in mid- sentence. After a long pause, he said, very quietly, "Gruffydd, listen to e' lad. I'd give anything on God's earth to spare you this. But I cannot. u must somehow try to understand that. You keep telling me you've cned manhood, you're no longer a boy. You have to prove that now, m%dd, by accepting what has to be." Llewelyn had always known his son had uncommon courage, an

  350 r 353 unrelenting pride. Gruffydd had lost much of his color. A few freely not usually noticeable stood out in sudden, sharp relief across his cheek bones, the bridge of his nose; he'd rarely looked so much like his moth as he did at that moment. He swallowed with an obvious effort, b when he spoke, he'd gotten his voice under control. "Where will he send me? To London, to the Tower?" Llewelyn winced. Jesu, no wonder the boy seemed so fearful! "Ah no, lad! You're to be a hostage, not a prisoner. You will not be caged, win not be shut away from the sun. John will treat you kindly, will keep you at his court." He could see Gruffydd's doubt, said, "He always does with hostages of high birth, has even allowed the younger ones to act as pages in his Queen's household." This time when he reached out, Gruffydd did not pull away. He put his arm around the boy's shoulders, and for a moment or two, no more than that, Gruffydd clung, held tight. But then he drew back. "How long," he asked tautly, "shall I be held hostage?" "I do not know," Llewelyn admitted, and Gruffydd retreated even farther into the shadows. "I want to be alone now, Papa." Gruffydd did not wait for Llewelyn's response, but at the door he suddenly stopped, swung around to face his father again. "Tell me, Papa. Would you have given Davydd up as a hostage, too, had John demanded it?" "Yes," Llewelyn said, "I would." Gruffydd's face was utterly in shadow. "I wish I could believe that." "Gruffydd, wait!" Llewelyn reached the door in four strides, bul still was not in time. The cloisters lay dark and deserted, and Gruffydd was nowhere in sight. THE sky was overcast, the sea dulled to an ashen shade of grey, the air so heavy and humid that Joanna felt as if she were filling her lungs with pure vapor. It must be like this to be caught in a cloud, she thought, and let herself indulge in a moment of fanciful whimsy, gazing up at the sky and wondering what it would be like, drifting within a world soft an wet and utterly opaque, a floating womb. "Whatever are you thinking of, Joanna? You've the oddest look °n your face!" . "When I was little, Richard, and out of favor with my mother, would go out on the moors and play what I called my 'pretend' gair' Sometimes I'd become a bird, sometimes a boat bound for Cat metimes just a leaf in the wind. I'd almost forgotten about those games-" She glanced across the encampment, toward her husband and his n Llewelyn was talking, Gruffydd saying very little. He was close ough for Llewelyn to touch, but even from where she stood, Joanna ould see ne was beyond reach. She turned back to her brother, said bruptly/ "Richard, promise me something. Do what you can for Gruffydd." He nodded, as ever, too discreet to pry. And because he did not, she felt obligated to explain. "For Llewelyn, not for Gruffydd. I will not lie not to you. When I learned what Papa meant to do, I was glad, Richard, I was truly glad. I only hope Papa keeps him in England for a thousand years. But if anything should happen to him whilst he is in Papa's hands, it will be the end of my marriage. Llewelyn might think he'd not blame me, but every time he'd look at me, he'd remember. How could he not? So try to ... to keep an eye on Gruffydd, see that he does not do anything foolish, or provoke Papa into doing anything . . . rash." "Joanna, I'll do my best, but I'll not lie to you, either. I cannot be the boy's guardian angel, cannot be Papa's conscience." "No, I suppose not," she conceded. "Do you know if Papa is still within the Earl of Chester's command tent?"

  "I think so. You mean to talk to him again? You've tried twice, Joanna; it might be best to give him time ..." "Time?" she echoed bleakly. "Now who's lying, Richard? You know as well as I that time is running out even as we talk." JOANNA curtsied, but did not wait to be summoned. Moving forward, she said, "My husband is making ready to depart. May I speak with Your Grace ere we go?" "I think it best if we do not. I do not see what we have to say." Joanna had no more warning than John. Never had her temper token fire so suddenly, flaring from embers to inferno in the span of seconds. "Well, I do have something to say to you, and say it I shall!" John was staring at her as if at a stranger, for it was the first time e ^ ever seen Joanna truly angry. He hesitated, then made a gesture of ismissal. The other men in the tent withdrew, leaving him alone with h* daughter. I did not betray you, Papa. Yes, I love my husband, but I am not st "If t0 fee' Suilty about that, not anymore." Joanna drew several un"A, y "reaths; regaining some of her composure, she said more calmly, ' apa, do you not see? The human heart is not like a loaf of bread; if

  352 I give a large portion to Llewelyn, it does not follow that I must then giVe you a smaller slice. I love you both, in different ways. If I stood with Llewelyn on Sunday, it's not that my love for him was greater, but rather that his need was greater." John said nothing; she could not tell whether her words were reaching him or not. "Papa, you told me once that your mother and father had ever used you and your brothers as weapons against each other You said you could not please the one without first damning the other I'm asking youno, I'm begging you. Do not do to me what they did to you." "Joanna . . . that's not what I ever meant to do. Surely you know that?" "What I know, Papa, is that I love you and I love Llewelyn, and the two of you are tearing me apart!" John flinched. "I never wanted that, lass," he said softly, "I sweat it." Joanna moved around the trestle table, moved into his arms. He hugged her close, then stepped back and smiled at her. "I think it a good thing I had sons. Daughters are much too resourceful at getting their own way, are much harder on the heart!" Joanna took her cue from him, did her best to echo his wry, teasing tone. "I do not know about that, Papa. I'd wager most daughters are more docile and biddable than a man's scapegrace sons." "So would I, until this morn. In truth, Joanna, I never suspected you had such a temper!" "I am your daughter, Eleanor of Aquitaine's granddaughter. Are you not the one always telling me that a pure-blood horse breeds true?" John laughed, and it was as if their estrangement were forgotten, as if all were as it had been. But as much as Joanna wanted to believe that, she knew it was not so, for either of them. As she followed John from the tent, Joanna discovered that the Welsh were waiting for her. Llewelyn was already astride his chestnut stallion. He watched as John escorted Joanna toward her mare, as they embraced and John helped her to mount. He raised his hand then, gave the signal to depart. But John still retained his hold on Joanna's reins. "Be sure," he said, "that you take care of my daughter." "Your Grace need not worry about my wife. You take care of my son." Joanna saw the look that burned between them; the very air seerne charged with static. She had no illusions left, knew their truce would n° last. There would be a reckoning. There would be another war, a there was nothing she could do, for both men wanted it so.

  29 CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND March 1212 JOHN rode into the riverside town known as Cantebrigge at dusk on Good Friday, settled himself and his court in the stone-and-timber castle built by William the Conqueror. Cantebrigge was a sprawling, unwalled town of some two thousand inhabitants, like most of the English towns Gruffydd had seen in the past seven months in that it had a marketplace, a leper hospital, a disproportionate number of stone churches, a Jewish ghetto called the Jewry, and a gallows, stocks, and pillory. But Cantebrigge was also home to a university with a large, raucous student population, in consequence of which it had more than its share of alehouses
and bordellos. Passing through the town, Gruffydd's companions took enthused notice of the latter, began to make plans for a night of disreputable pleasures. As ever, it struck Gruffydd as strange indeed that in some ways he should have greater freedom as a hostage of the English King than as the son of Gwynedd's Prince. In Wales he'd been conscious at all times of his rank; as Llewelyn's firstborn son, he was accustomed to being the focal point of stares, the target of whispers. Unable to escape his identity, he could only do his best to live up to it, and his dread of being roade to look ridiculous had imposed upon him an unwilling chastity. He'd known there were women of easy virtue, women of the brake and bush who'd lay with a man for money. But each time he was tempted, he would begin to fear that he might not know what to do, that the w°man would laugh at his inexperience and, far worse, then tell everyne about his inept fumbling, his greenness. But once in England, he discovered that for the first time in his life, ^" W^C !»*-»* 1.1 i £ _ 1.1. !_ i. 1 1 _: -^l_ L i__ 11 T*!-. ^ -- J den was not the center of attention, not known by sight to all. The sud- anonymity was unsettling, but liberating, too. On a night in mid-

  354 November, he'd accompanied some of his fellow hostages to a Hereford bawdy house and had lost his virginity to a plump Saxon whore named Edwina, who smelled of sweat and garlic and charged him half a penny but called him "love" and put to rest any lingering doubts about his manhood. Now, when his friends Collen and Emlyn pressed him, he fell ln with their plans willingly enough. He was beginning to want more than hurried couplings on fetid, scratchy straw, to want a bedmate he did not have to buy. But he did not see much likelihood of his forming an attachment of the heart at the English court, and if he could not ease his loneliness, his heartsick yearning for Wales, he could at least relieve his body's needs. It was dark by the time a fasting-day fish supper had been served, before Gruffydd and his companions were able to find beds for themselves in the side aisles of the great hall. Madoc ap Maelgwn sauntered past, nodded coolly. Gruffydd gave an equally cool greeting in return, was glad when Madoc moved on; he was not good at dissembling, found it awkward to be in such close proximity with the son of his father's enemy. He knew Collen's father had not sent him any money for some weeks, and he was counting his own coins to make sure he could pay for them both, when a man clad in the red and white livery of the King stopped before his pallet. "I've been sent to escort you to the King's Grace," he said brusquely, and Gruffydd's heart skipped a beat. He could think of very few reasons why John should be summoning him, none of them reassuring. THE room was circular, lit by smoking wall cressets, cluttered with open coffers and clothing. Gruffydd found it almost intolerable to be in John's presence, sometimes thought he might choke on his hatred, and it was with the greatest reluctance that he came forward, knelt. But in the next moment the English King was forgotten. Gruffydd got abruptly to his feet, stared openmouthed at the woman standing next to John. He would never have believed he could be so glad to see one he so detested, but now he stepped toward her, said eagerly, "° you bring a message from my father, Madame?" Joanna shook her head, and he felt his throat close up with disap pointment. But then he heard a familiar voice say, "Why should I g1 Joanna a message I can better deliver myself?" and he spun aroun < disbelieving.